


Off Limits

by RumDrum91



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RumDrum91/pseuds/RumDrum91
Summary: They left Boston for a fresh start, but Storybrooke comes with its own complications. In a small town, run equally by goodwill and gossip, Emma is determined to make a better life for her son.St. Anthony's was supposed to be a godsend, but trouble comes in the form of Henry's teacher: a charming, unnecessarily handsome Irishman.I'm also on Tumblr, username rumdrum91. I post mainly Killian/ Captain Swan gif sets, but I'm fairly new. Give me a follow, and I will follow right back! I also take requests for one shots or gif sets, if you like my work:)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would literally sob with gratitude if I got one comment. Not to sound desperate, but I'm a new fic writer, and feedback really really helps!!! Thank you for reading!!

The yellow Bug drove lazily down Main Street, passing the diner and turning left at the church. Anyone in Storybrooke would have recognized it as the route to the school, but very few would have recognized the driver. For her part, Emma would have preferred to keep it that way for as long as she could; but the move from Boston had been for Henry’s sake. Storybrooke was never going to feel like home if he didn’t have some sort of social network.

School was a good way to start, so Emma was trying to be as enthusiastic as possible, despite the sulking ten-year-old in her passenger seat. “This is going to be so _great,_ ” she said for the fourth time. “It’s pretty here, isn’t it? As soon as the weather gets warm, we should just walk to school.” She looked over with a smile. “You, me, a couple of coffees from the diner—what do you say?”

Henry shrugged his shoulders, eyes downcast.

Emma sighed, taking a right turn into St. Anthony’s parking lot. “You have to give this place a chance, Henry,” she said. “I know you miss Boston, but…this _can_ be home, okay? It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

Most of the parents just drove around the curb to drop their children off, so there were plenty of spaces left. Emma pulled in beside a black Civic, parked, and switched off the engine. Henry shifted his backpack onto his shoulders and started to open the door.

“Hey.” She stopped him, putting her hand on his wrist. Henry exhaled in frustration and turned towards her, a stubborn look on his normally sweet face.

“I don’t want to _get used to it,”_ he told her. “You can make me move here, but that doesn’t make it home.”

Emma closed her eyes briefly, biting back the immediate, parental response: _You’re too young to understand._ He _was_ too young to understand; but he wasn’t too young to have his own opinion. If she pushed, it would only make him argue and pull away even more. That was the last thing she wanted, especially now: when he needed her more than anything.

“Okay,” she said finally. “What if we make a deal?” She held out her, as if in a handshake. “We give this place a couple months, and if we don’t like it, we’ll go back to Boston. But in the meantime…we try to make the best of it?”

Henry looked at her for a long time, brow furrowed as he wrestled with the decision. After a minute, he cautiously took her hand and gave it a slow, single shake. Emma smiled.

“Smart kid,” she said. “All right, let’s get a move on before you’re late.”

“ _Mom_ , you don’t have to walk me to class,” Henry groaned, tilting his head back in exasperation. Emma raised her voice over his, a hand held up against his protest.

“I’m walking you to class, don’t argue with me. I want to see the school, meet your teacher, make sure nothing toxic’s growing in the cafeteria…”

Henry gagged, which made her laugh. She slung an arm around his shoulders, giving him a quick hug and a kiss on his soft brown hair.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

* * * * * * *

The hallways looked clean and orderly, lined by bulletin boards filled with various papers in childish handwriting, as well as art projects, “All About Me” posters, and flyers for different activities. At the main office, the hallways split according to each grade, with kindergarten through second on the first floor and third through fifth on the second. After checking Henry in with the secretary—Miss Blanchard, a sweet, smiling brunette—Emma led him up the stairs, headed for the fourth grade.

“They’ve got a soccer team,” she noted, pointing at a flyer tacked on the stairwell wall. “That could be fun, right?”

Henry gave her a sideways look that clearly said, _Don’t push it._

Emma smiled tightly and nodded. “Right. Sorry. Point taken. Let’s just focus on school”

“Cool,” he said tonelessly. “School is the best.”

She affectionately messed up his hair, half-rolling her eyes at his sarcasm. It was a comfort to hear him sound like his old self. It gave her hope that he might be more willing to cooperate with their deal than he’d let on.

“All right,” she said, glancing down at the schedule Miss Blanchard had given her. “You’re in room…227. Look for 227.” While Henry was glancing from side to side, Emma went through his schedule again. “Doesn’t look too bad,” she remarked. “Math, English, blah blah blah…but you got a good lunch hour, and Art at the end of the day. You like Art, don’t you?”

“It’s okay,” Henry shrugged.

“Teacher is a ‘Mr. Jones’,” she read. She looked up from the paper with a frown. “See anyone who looks like a Mr. Jones around here?”

“I’m still looking for 227.”

“Oh, hang on—” Emma passed him the schedule as her phone went off, digging in her bag for it. Of course, it had fallen to the very bottom, amidst stray lipstick covers and pens and loose change. She frowned and tried to shake the contents, holding it up to the light—

If she’d been paying attention, she would have noticed the door just to her left opening and someone walking out, and they might not have collided and sent a flurry of test papers in the air. But she wasn’t, and they did: her shoulder hit something solid, a man let out a startled, “ _Whoa!”_ , and they both fell to the floor in a painful crash.

“Sorry,” Emma winced, holding her head as she tried to sit up. “That was my fault, I wasn’t looking.”

“Quite all right.” He spoke with a warm, pleasant accent that could have been Irish, though her head ached too much to be sure. Opening her eyes, she blinked a few times to try and focus her vision, then looked over at her victim.

 _Oh, shit,_ was the first thought that came to mind. Emma stared at him for a moment, marveling at the fact that she managed to _literally_ bump into such a good-looking guy. Even sitting down, she could tell he was tall, probably six feet or so. His hair —now disheveled from the fall—was dark brown, nearly black, though there was a definite hint of ginger in the stubble along his jaw. It wasn’t until she realized that his piercing blue eyes were giving her a similar appraisal that Emma dropped her gaze to the circle of papers scattered around them.

“I’m so sorry,” she sighed, helping him gather the papers. “I should have been paying attention.”

“Really, it’s okay,” he grinned. “I doubt my fourth-graders are too eager to take this test, they’ve been threatening to riot.”

 _Fourth-graders._ Emma looked up, knitting her brow. “Wait, did you say, _fourth_ grade?” she asked, handing him her stack of tests. “As in, you teach fourth grade?”

“That’s right.” The man raised an eyebrow, slightly turning his head in question. “Why?”

Standing up, she motioned for Henry to come closer. Henry grimaced in reluctance, but obliged, hands shoved in his pockets. “This is my son,” Emma explained. “He’s supposed to be in room 227 with Mr. Jones, but we got a little turned around. Think you could point us in the right direction?”

“I should be able to, yeah,” he said, looking amused. “Here, I’ll walk with you.”

“You sure?” Emma asked. “It’s not too much trouble?”

“Not trouble at all, it’s right on my way.”

They fell into step beside him as he started down the hall. The walls were papered with class assignments like the others, which gave Emma a good idea of what she was going to spend her evenings helping Henry with. There were book reports; wildlife reports; some sort of poster project on explorers. Nothing too terrible, as long as their science projects were equally tame.

“So, Henry, how do you feel about starting at St. Anthony’s?” their guide asked. “Ever gone to Catholic school before?”

“No,” Henry answered with a grimace. “But I’ve heard they’re really strict and that the nuns are mean.” He irritably scratched through his uniform sweater. “I’m not scared, though.”

“Ah, just wait til gym class. Sister Agnes would make the Devil run laps, if she could.”

Emma snorted, and even Henry gave a grudging smile at that: the image of a nun in full habit blowing a whistle at a red, horned devil was too funny.

The hallways seemed to go on endlessly, but eventually, the classroom numbers edged closer to 227. All the while, the man kept a steady stream of questions, engaging Henry in a casual conversation that seemed to warm Henry up to his surroundings.

“You should think about joining our soccer team,” he was saying when they stopped in front of the classroom. “Sister Astrid sets up a refreshment table at the end of the game, and players get first crack at it.” He looked up, grinning at Emma. “Parents are invited, too.”

“Maybe,” Emma replied. She lightly jerked her head at Henry. “I think we’re still in a contemplative stage right now.”

“Fair enough.” The man glanced at the door, and turned back with raised eyebrows. “Well, Henry, this is our stop. Say good-bye to your mum, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Emma’s brow twitched, and her eyes moved from the door to the man; to Henry; and back to the man. “Mr. Jones,” she realized, feeling like a complete idiot. “You’re Henry’s teacher.”

Jones shrugged, as if to say, _You caught me._ “I could have said something, I suppose,” he admitted, “but I rarely get the opportunity to meet my students outside of a classroom context.” His eyes twinkled at Henry, and he smiled. “I’m a lot less strict than the nuns. Promise.”

Henry nodded, unsure of what to make of the situation; but he didn’t look angry, either, which was a good sign. Maybe this teacher would make his transition to Storybrooke a little easier.

He gave Emma half a hug and a muttered, “Bye, Mom,” waving off her promise to pick him up promptly at three o’clock. Emma watched him go with a smile, waiting until he had disappeared inside the classroom before turning back to Jones.

“Well,” she said, raising her eyebrows.“Now I _really_ feel bad about crashing into you.”

“Ah, that’s okay,” Jones said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “It’s a Catholic school. Say a Hail Mary, and it’s like it never happened.”

Emma clicked her teeth in mock regret. “I’m not Catholic.”

“That’s all right.” He leaned forward with a wink. “I won’t tell.”

She bit her lip, trying to stem her growing smile. _Stop it,_ she told herself. _He’s Henry’s teacher. Do_ not _find him charming, do_ not _flirt with him._ Folding her arms, she rocked back on her heels, putting a little more distance between them. “Thank you,” she said more seriously. “For talking to Henry like you did. He’s…”

Jones nodded as she trailed off. “I can tell when a kid is going through a rough time,” he said quietly. “I’ll keep an eye on him, but—” he glanced over his shoulder at the classroom door—“I think he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Emma mused. “I hope he goes for the soccer team. Making a few friends would help with the transition.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jones promised. There was a note of finality in his voice, so Emma could tell this conversation had reached its end. Sure enough, Jones extended his hand and offered her a parting smile. “Been a pleasure, uh…?”

“Emma,” she replied.

“Emma,” he echoed with a nod. “We’ll see you at three o’clock.”

* * * * * * *

She tried not to think about the way her name sounded in his warm, rustic accent: how it seemed to emphasize the _E_ at the beginning, before rolling smoothly over the rest, curling up again at the _a._ And then she tried not to think about his blue, blue eyes, or sharp jaw, stubbled with black and ginger. She tried not to think about his smile, or his easy laugh, or how his eyebrow seemed perpetually arched in mischief.

_Henry’s teacher, Henry’s teacher, Henry’s teacher._

It became a mantra, all the way down the stairs, out the school, and across the parking lot. The yellow Bug was easy to spot, and she made a beeline for it, concentrating on walking as quickly as possible to avoid thinking about Jones. She didn’t know his first name, she realized; and then began wondering what it was.

Until she reminded herself sternly that, that counted as thinking about him, and he was _Henry’s teacher, Henry’s teacher, Henry’s teacher._ She had to stop. Right now. No thinking about his voice, or his name, or his eyes, or his smile—okay, she was really bad at this.

 _Goddamn it,_ she thought frustratedly, wrenching the key in the ignition with a vengeance Why— _why_ _—_ couldn’t Henry have had a scary nun teacher?


	2. Chapter 2

The police station was much smaller than the one she’d left behind in Boston. Judging by the number of empty parking spaces, it wasn’t heavily employed, either: only two squad cars in the lot, and a smattering of others. Hardly shocking, considering that Storybrooke’s low criminal activity had been one of the deciding factors in their move here; but it still took Emma a minute to process.

She bundled her coat a little tighter against the cold March air, and walked the short distance between the lot and the double-doored entrance. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass panes and grimaced, trying to smooth her wind-tousled hair as she pulled the door open.

It smelled like break-room coffee and carpet cleaner, like any office building. A rounded wooden desk hugged the corner opposite the doors, manned by a pretty young woman with a name tag that read: RORY.

“Hi,” Emma said, approaching her. “I have a meeting with David Nolan?”

Rory nodded and typed rapidly into her computer. She clicked her mouse a few times, then stood up, pointing down a hallway. “His office is the last door on the left. Walk past the cells, and you see should a little room sectioned off.”

Emma nodded a thanks and started walking in the direction Rory had indicated. Most stations were noisy, chaotic places, filled with the sounds of frantically ringing phones, overlapping conversations, and metal drawers slamming shut. This one was nearly silent, save for the faint sound of rustling pages and muffled footsteps.

She knocked on the door before twisting the handle and poking her head inside. A tall, blonde man was leaning against the cell door, shaking his head as the prisoner tried to argue with him.

“…you’ve got it out for me, Sheriff, I know you do.”

“Leroy, I would love to stop arresting you, but you keep breaking the law,” the man—whom she presumed to be Nolan—sighed.

Leroy leaned to the side, dark eyes narrowing at Emma the crook in Nolan’s arm. “What are you looking at, sister?” he growled through his dark beard.

Nolan turned around, looking briefly confused at the sight of her standing behind him. Slowly, he pointed at her, a small smile turning up his lips. “You must be Emma Swan.”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“David Nolan.” He shook her hand firmly, then jutted his head at the cells. “Sorry about Leroy. He’s in a mood today.”

Leroy glared at them through the bars. Emma smirked back, giving a little wave of her finger, before turning around to following Nolan. He kept speaking as he led them to the little office in the corner, blocked off by two window-paned walls. “Checked in with Rory at the front desk, then?”

“I did.”

“Good.” Nolan gestured her into a seat across the from the desk, then moved to the filing cabinet and began rifling through folders. “I’m glad you’re here,” he remarked. “I’ve really needed someone to help me with the administrative stuff. Hard to find a cop willing to retire to the desk.”

“I can’t do the ‘round-the-clock, active-duty thing anymore,” Emma said, shaking her head. “I’ve got a ten-year-old, and the day shift fits his school day.”

“Ah.” Nolan walked around the desk, placing a folder labeled with her name in front of her. “This is the rest of your new-hire paperwork. Go ahead and fill those out, and we can get you started.”

Twenty minutes later, she was directed to a small office, equipped with a desk and a very old, outdated computer. Nolan explained that the town had allocated a very small budget to maintenance of the sheriff’s department, and as such, the station could barely afford the technology they had, let alone updates.

“But at least we make payroll,” he added with a tired smile. “Hope that’s enough to keep you on.”

“Depends.” Emma swiveled in her chair and crooked an eyebrow. “What’s the coffee situation like?”

Nolan grinned. “Break room’s down the hall,” he said, indicating with a nod of his head. “Coffee’s not too bad, and sometimes there’s donuts, too. Rory usually makes a diner run in the morning.”

“Sold,” Emma chimed. “Next time, save me a bear claw.”

“You got it.”

Nolan left her to the tedious tasks ahead of her, made all the more dull with the slow computer. The hours crawled by, but she much preferred having a boring job to a dangerous one. As a single parent with no family to speak of, there was no way she could have been an active cop: Henry’s future was much better secured with her behind a desk.

At one o’clock, Nolan popped his head into her office, knocking on the doorframe. “Hey,” he said when she looked up. “You can take your lunch break now.”

“Oh, thank God.” Emma rolled away from her desk, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She was hungry, her eyes hurt, and her brain was starting to feel numb. The words _lunch break_ had never sounded so wonderful.

Nolan smiled sympathetically. “Get a hot meal from Granny’s,” he advised. “Does wonders for your morale.”

She and Henry had ordered in from Granny’s several times that week, so she already had an idea of what she wanted: grilled cheese and tomato soup. After promising to return in half an hour, Emma walked down the hallway and flung the door open. The air was cold and biting and fresh, with faint smoky scent that distinguished winter air. She relished it as it filled her lungs, grateful to be out of the stale little office.

It was a short drive to the diner, so in a matter of minutes, she was pulling into the parking lot. She swung open the car door, carefully hopping over the patch of mud beneath her tires and onto the paint-chipped steps. Once inside, she slipped out of her coat, folded it over her arm, and approached the counter.

The waitress—a tall, pretty brunette with bright lipstick and a name that read: RUBY— glanced up from her phone. “Need a menu?” she asked in a bored voice.

“No, I’m good.” Emma waited as Ruby slid her phone into her back pocket and pulled out a notepad.

“Whatcha getting?”

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Just a water.”

Ruby jotted down her order, then ripped it off the pad and stuck itto the metal counter by the kitchen window. “Grilled cheese, tomato soup,” she called. She looked over her shoulder at Emma, and tossed her hand in a lazy gesture. “You can sit down while you wait.”

Emma dropped her bag on the counter and took a stool, looking around the place. It had an aged, but homey atmosphere: comforting, but she could see why a young girl like Ruby didn’t seem thrilled to be working here. There was a dartboard against the back wall and—to her delight—a genuine, old-school jukebox. Not a Touch-Tone, app-run jukebox: a “stick a quarter in the slot” jukebox.

“Does that work?” she asked Ruby, pointing at it.

“The jukebox?” Ruby rolled her mascara-d eyes and sighed. “Kind of. But it only plays old music. I’ve tried to update it, but it’s a piece of crap.”

Emma shrugged, considering. “I kinda like old music,” she said. “What do you listen to?”

“Not that,” Ruby exhaled. She turned around, taking a carafe of coffee as she went on her refill routine through the diner.

With a failed attempt at socializing under her belt, Emma waited for her order in silence. She took a little sugar packet from the condiments basket and flicked it with her finger, trying not to feel discouraged. It wasn’t going to be easy, working her way into this tight-knit, small-town society.

She hoped Henry was having better luck.

*******

It certainly looked like he was: when she came to pick him up, Henry was standing with a small group of boys, laughing.

Emma raised her eyebrows, sitting back in her seat and resting her elbow on the open car window as she watched her little socialite from a distance. Henry tended to be a loner, even in Boston, so to see him interacting with the other kids was…somewhat of a relief.

A few of the sisters were herding children toward their correct busses, while the rest of the teachers stood outside with their remaining students as they waited for parent pick-ups. Unwittingly, Emma’s eyes scouted for the tall, dark-haired figure that should have been hovering near Henry’s group. Sure enough, Jones stood few feet away, buttoned up in a black pea coat and a clipboard under his arm.

She started to smile; then shook her head, cursing. “Enough of this, Em,” she muttered to herself, swinging out of the car. “You’re acting like a damn teenager.”

Jones was handsome and charming. Like _a lot of guys._ It was the accent that had caught her off guard, but she was done being dazzled now, right? Right.

Right.

A particularly cold gust of window rushed through the leaves, not only chilling her bare skin, but clearing her head of the haze. By the time she reached Jones, she was calm, cool, and collected: like a normal, grown-ass woman.

“ _Well_ ,” she said by way of greeting, prompting him to turn around, “I don’t know what you said, but my kid looks pretty happy over there.” She smiled, nodding her head at the group of boys. “Is that the famous soccer team?”

“Aye, some of them.” Jones looked over at Henry, arching an eyebrow in consideration. “You know, he’s really smart,” he remarked. “Especially at maths. He wound up explaining mixed fractions better than I could.”

Emma blinked. “Math, really?”

“Mmm.”

Henry seemed to feel their eyes on him, because he suddenly jerked his head up. Emma smiled and waved. Henry nodded, said something to the other boys, and with a general murmuring of farewell, they broke the circle to let him out. Hands clasped on either shoulder strap, Henry trudged over. squinting as the wind blew in his face.

“Hey, kid,” Emma grinned, giving him a one-armed hug as he came to her side. “How was it?”

“Not so bad,” Henry shrugged.

“ _Not so bad?”_ she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It looked a little better than _‘not so bad’_ over there, with your friends.”

Henry simply shrugged again, not wanting to admit to anything in front of the adults. The move here had given him a good three months of guilty-parent-conscience: clearly, he was going to milk it for all its worth.

Emma didn’t mind indulging him. She smiled and ruffled his hair, digging in her pocket with the other hand for the keys. “Here,” she said, handing them over. “Go unlock the car, I’ll be there in a sec.”

“‘Kay.” Henry gave a little two-fingered wave at his teacher. “Bye, Mr. Jones.”

“Bye, Henry,” Jones called after him, Henry having already started walked away. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Emma kept her eyes on him until he reached the car, then turned back to Jones. “Thanks again,” she said. “Whatever you did, it must’ve worked.”

“Whatever I did, you’re welcome,” he returned with a little laugh. “I say this to every parent, but this time, I’m being completely honest: Henry is a pleasure to have in class.”

Foot straying backward for her walk away, Emma inclined her head, an appreciative smile on her face. “Time for me to get going,” she said, taking a step. “See you.”

She had only taken a few more steps when Jones stopped her with a quick, “Wait, Emma!”

Raising her eyebrows, Emma half-turned, somewhat surprised. “Uh—yeah?”

“Forgot to mention this earlier, but, uh—” Jones cleared his throat—“there’s actually a parent-teacher conference coming up next week. I know Henry’s barely started here and won’t have much a progress report to go over, but I’d really like it if you could some see everything the kids are working on. It’s good, when the parents stay in touch with the curriculum.” He shrugged, half a smile on his face. “Makes the evening homework-help’s a lot easier.”

“Yeah…” Emma nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can do that. What time?”

“Six. Wednesday.” Jones spread his hands enticingly. “There’s going to be snacks.”

“Sounds good.”

As she walked away, Emma kept her mind concentrated on things like her grocery list, household repairs, tedious little errands she had to do around town. She couldn’t allow her mind to drift over the conversation, relive Jones’s little laugh, think about the way he’d made a parent-teacher conference somehow seem appealing. After all, she’d made a deal with herself. She was done being dazzled, she was definitely _not_ dazzled, and that was all there was to it. Right?

Right.


End file.
